


Everything Must Go

by stefwith1f



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6105106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stefwith1f/pseuds/stefwith1f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'd like to tell you that this was always my path. Or that the embrace of my calling, late as it was, came like a light switching on. That I awoke, knew, and was worthy.</p><p>It wasn't like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Must Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for slodwick's 14th Annual "A Picture is Worth 1000 Words" Challenge. Thank you, slod.
> 
>  
> 
> [My assignment photo can be found here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/dreamer7112/754756881)

You're kind to look in on me. I'm grateful you take the time. 

That bread you brought was wonderful. Unbelievable that I forgot about bread. 

Of course. Your question. 

I'd like to tell you that this was always my path. Or that the embrace of my calling, late as it was, came like a light switching on. That I awoke, knew, and was worthy. 

It wasn't like that. 

It was more like a dimmer: things got darker until they were black, and only then could I see. 

I was young. Except for my years of college in the city, I'd lived in this town my whole life. I knew the trees in the park and which yellow lights lasted long enough to coast through. I knew everyone's business. You understand, your people are from here. I knew your mother Lila; have I mentioned that? 

Your grandmother Lila. That _has_ come up; my apologies. 

As a child I had friends that I neglected for books and quiet. Most of them moved away. As an adult I worried about making friends, but picked some up as the suburbs turned into little affordable satellites for the sprawling city. My husband was the first kind of friend, until he became my husband.

I worked in a bank uptown. We lived nearby. I grew up right here. This space was bigger, then. 

I've had time to think about it, and I think this was when it began: one night we were out with some of our newer friends. For no reason - none that was clear then - I couldn't stand them. They were so loud, speaking over one another, jockeying for praise. I marveled at my anxiety about making friends. Had I just accepted the first people that came along? How do you _stop_ being friends? 

I felt a pressure like my tongue would split and birth a raging thing to destroy the room. I flushed and tasted metal. I drank more wine. It was metal, too. 

My husband noticed and excused us. 

He was a good man. If there was room in this cell for regret, I might regret hurting him. 

We saw our friends less. Or I did. I hope he continued to spend time with them. We talked about what I had felt. He found me a psychologist. I went.

Then Christmas, and I drove downtown to buy his present. I focused on the specific sneakers he wanted - orange, hideous - from the brand whose name I couldn't remember but hoped the salesperson would know when I described the logo as "a trident sort of thing."

It was raining, warmer than had been forecasted. My heavy coat was oppressive. I parked and crossed the street.

The store lit up the dusk. Going Out of Business. I stepped forward and stopped. I was in the right place. It was the wrong store. 

A woman stopped, sheltering me under her umbrella, asking if I was alright. 

I asked if that jewelry store didn't used to be a shoe store. She thought, and said maybe, once, but it had been a dying jewelry store for a while, and a dying Latin grocery before.

Embarrassed, I thanked her. She left with her umbrella and her bleak tales of small town business ownership.

Rain slid down my face, sweat slid down my back. 

A car honked, startling me. At some point I had stepped back into the street. I held up my hand in apology and ran to my car. There was time; I could order the sneakers online. 

Weeks later I woke from a dream. It was midnight. My husband was asleep, his hand resting on my knee. This was a compromise: I was warm, all the time, and he was a cuddler.

I felt a pain in my chest. 

_I don't love you._

A thought, intrusive as Godzilla and as hard to ignore.

I thought about our relationship. I couldn't do that again with someone else. What a waste to walk away now.

But what a terrible way to weigh a marriage. 

I _did_ love him, though, didn't I? I still feel like I do, though it doesn't matter.

The next day was cold. I walked downtown alone.

Almost immediately, I saw the church. Two things occurred to me: I had never noticed this narrow building, heaving with a brackish glow, and - hot on that thought's heels - I had absolutely passed it a thousand times, and had always wanted to go inside. 

I say _church:_ it was just a building. It _felt_ church _._

Inside was bottom-of-the-sea quiet. I couldn't hear myself breathe.

A steady wind came from a lattice wall that went up forever, backlit with that pulsing glow. I stared and the lattice unfurled, twined into unfamiliar symbols I understoodwhen I really focused. 

Something loomed beside me. I got the impression of a saint. A worm. It was big as the room and smelled like wet oak leaves. 

As a child I read about an anchoress. I carried the word with me my whole life. 

I was outside, walking to the place where I grew up. The juniper bush was still on the corner, listing into a slushy puddle. The houses were razed years before.

The room that was to be mine waited. 

These condos wouldn't be built for years. 

The materials were there. I knew the words to the rite. It went quickly, but my hands bled when the final stones were in place. They healed. Time was different.

I didn't worry about my body's needs. I wondered if I had died, if I was missed. These thoughts didn't hurt me.

It was so quiet.

Everyone passed. I assumed they couldn't see me. Then there was a child. They grew and left. Then others, over time. No one brought me bread before you.

My worship isn't about solitude. I am a constant of place. 

I am here. And I _am_ here. 

It was nice of you to see me. 

It's good to talk again.


End file.
